


7th of August

by teasmudge



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: M/M, Perverted Demon Sniffs Panties In An Ambiguously Obnoxious Way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:35:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25755208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teasmudge/pseuds/teasmudge
Relationships: Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48





	7th of August

After I had ordered the cleaning of the manor, I, the butler of Phantomhive, tended _himself_ to the sweeping of the Young Master’s room.

It was established since the beginning, that the meaning of Ciel’s existence, of _my_ Ciel’s existence, was to leave every area untouched, and have every movement retouched, and so on. It was why the estate, including with it the girthy study and the Master’s private quarters had not a scrap of personal belongings.

But even sapphire souls had hampers!

I am, behind closed doors, a fast, most ardent thing of black. It was without grace that I _sunk_ myself into the Young Master’s heap of sodded, boyish clothes. It was I, a hungry, starving demon, that reddened my eyes at a particular silkened fabric with a tangy, whispering heat just there. Right there, _yes_ , and I, with the gal of a demon, chained it around my slithering, beating ache.

I _stretched_ it.

And then I took myself to the Young Master’s lilac bed, where, with the close inspection of my tender face, had found the smell of him. Like mahogany and warm skin. And a minuature fisfull of rumpled bedsheets underneath the dribble of his pillows as proof of his nightmare. My poor, and brave, and troubled Young Master.

Mey-Rin had not yet replaced the bed sheets since a handful of days before because I had told her not to wash them. I would have every say in regard to my Young Master’s resting place. The thought alone sent a stab through my thew.

And, _oh_ , my palpitating Young Master. Who other than him but to scrunch up his rainy socks in the pockets of his linens. At this age! How deliciously mischievous for a young man, leaving them there, just for me, his dutiful servant, to find and to reap.

Over the abysmal edge of clenching thought, I emptied the bed of its purity and stained it anew. Tainted it with my lust for that darling Young Master.

Come night and I shall stay with him and watch simply as he rolls around and sleeps in it.


End file.
